Crimon Petals
by The BestChaser
Summary: A flash of copper. Golden eyes. A gentle tilt of the head. The crowd ceases to exist as all the air is pressed from her lungs. Could it be? Here of all places? / Tina is hot on Grindelwald's heels on the European continent, deep undercover, when Newt is recruited by his former teacher.
1. Prologue

**Crimson Petals**

This story idea came to me during my Christmas holidays in 2016 and it's not relinquished its hold until it was finally all written out in May/June of this year. I was lucky to include most elements of the first trailer, but whatever else we've discovered since then has not been taken into account - so this'll soon count as an AU. Tina's role in this story is VERY loosely based on female operative in the French resistance in WW2 - so please be mindful that I'm not romanticising it. Hence the rating.

This story is fully written and beta'd and updates will be every Tuesday and Friday.

The biggest thank you goes to my alpha and beta readers njckle and Katie Havok, without them this story would still be a simple outline.

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PROLOGUE

The hallway is dark, its blackness broken only by the cones of flimsy lamplight from the lanterns adorning the walls. No natural light penetrates these walls, stoic in their solidness, and he loathes it.

He always has.

It's not the darkness he despises, it's the forced codependency he seeks to end. Darkness is daylight's intriguing cousin, mysterious and full of secrets, shrouding everything from view. It's his cover, his ally, his secret keeper. Still, there are bigger, larger things he no longer wishes to conceal. He wants to break free, to no longer be chained to the darkness.

Soon, he thinks, it will be time to reclaim the daylight. No more hiding in the shadows. It'll all come to light.

The hushed whisper of voices floats through the opening and into the hallway, growing exponentially the closer they get. His footsteps follow behind, slow and steady, echoing off the stone floor and ceiling. There's no need to rush; he wants to savour the moment, draw it out as long as he's able. He waits in the door, staying just within the shadows as he watches the hall. Rows upon rows of seats reach almost all the way to the ceiling, filled to the brim with expectant faces.

The corners of his lips quirk into a satisfied smile at the sight and he runs his fingers through the blonde hair atop his head. It's short again, nothing like the long mane and beard he had acquired in New York, and his smile grows wider. He's himself again, about to reclaim his rightful place. They're all here, waiting for him.

"Look at them, waiting like vultures for the lions to deliver the kill," he says, inclining his head to the man on his left.

"Revolting," his companion agrees, icy blue eyes trained on the crowd of waiting people, "but they will be of use to you, Gellert. They're flocking to the cause like starved men to water since your spectacular escape from MACUSA."

He chuckles darkly. "Yes, I imagine they enjoyed seeing the great Seraphina Picquery made to look like a fool just as much as I did." He sneers. "I told you, Rosier. It's just the prelude we needed. They'll be putty in our hands after tonight."

They share a look and turn as one to the woman to Grindelwald's right. Her eyes are lowered to the coarse rope binding her hands, chin nearly touching her chest, barely daring to breathe as she waits for their direction.

He leans close to whisper in her ear, delighting in the way she shivers and recoils from him, naked terror in her eyes. "Are you ready, my dear?"

She doesn't answer and he gives a crooked grin, tugging at the loose end of rope to pull her along like dog. The voices quiet immediately as they step out of the shadow and into the pool of sunlight streaming through the rotund skylight above, broken only by the shallow water that covers it, painting silver ripples of light across their faces.

Grindelwald comes to stand at the centre of the hall as his two-toned gaze sweeps the room, arms drawing wide. "Welcome, friends. Glad you could join us today; I am planning to make this meeting worth your while." He pulls on the string and the woman yelps before stepping closer. "We have an esteemed guest with us today, let us welcome her properly, shall we?" He turns to her. "Tell us your name, dearest." She mumbles quietly and he tugs at the rope. "Louder!"

She jumps at the sharpness of his tone as it cuts through her like a knife before raising her head, standing proud as she challenges them. "Alexandrine Tremblay."

A gasp goes through the black-feathered crowd.

One elderly man stands on wobbly legs, straightening his garments, and his beard trembles in agitation as he points a wrinkled, gnarly finger at Grindelwald's chest. "You go too far, Mr Grindelwald! She's from one of France's most important wizarding families — old blood — this will not be easily forgiven. You're parading her around like a show horse! What is the meaning of this?"

Grindelwald holds up both hands in a placating gesture. "Dear Alexandrine is in good hands, fear not. No harm will come to her, I will attest to it. I don't like having to keep her here, but it's the only way." He smiles. "She'll be helpful, won't you, my dear?" His tone imitates near perfect warmth. Grindelwald holds out his left hand, and Rosier places a large glass sphere in his palm. The crowd watches with bated breath as he holds it high, his voicing ringing out strong and clear as it slices through the expectant silence. "The prophecy has fulfilled itself. I have found the child. He is magnificent."

"That prophecy got you captured. And where is the child?" The old man withers, shrinking in on himself as Grindelwald disconcerting gaze hones in on him, unblinking, and swallows before retaking his seat.

Grindelwald turns, pacing the room with both hands folded behind his back. "The boy will come. He'll be instrumental to the cause. His power alongside mine will make us invincible. They will all bend to our will, mark my words! We shall be free." He turns in a whirl of black fabric, a sure smile gracing his lips. "He's been slighted, sure to harbour the same hate towards them. All he's looking for is a family, a place to belong — Alexandrine will lure him here," he spreads his arms wide, "but we will be his family. Nobody will stop us."


	2. Chapter 1

**Crimson Petals**

This story is fully written and beta'd and will be updated every Tuesday and Friday until the movie release in November. The biggest thank you goes to njckle and Katie Havok for their fantastic alpha and beta reading and all the encouragement, support and patience.

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CHAPTER ONE

He is alone and has been for days — or has it been weeks? Months? Credence can't be sure anymore. It's morning outside, judging by the single beam of brilliant white light that slithers through the narrow crack in the ceiling above. He is still wrapped in darkness, both inside and out, and shivering in the cold. Everything is dark, even the clothes that hang off him in tatters, almost as if he means to slowly blend into the walls that surround him, solid and unrelenting, yet he doesn't dare touch them. It's as if the stones bear eyes and ears like living, breathing things. Who knows what they can hear?

There's an eerie creepiness about this place.

Nothing is breathing here, quiet except for his own rattling intakes of air, almost unbearably loud against the deafening silence that surrounds him. Then there's the constant drip of water, a rhythmic _tap, tap_ ; like a pocket watch, both soothing and disconcerting all at once. A small patch of moss grows by a crack in the masonry, craning its limbs towards the light, the deep green of its leaves a stark contrast to the monochromatic backdrop of the stone. Something else struggling for survival in this godforsaken hellhole.

Credence feels just as hollow and alone on the inside. Sometimes he wishes he truly _could_ melt into the walls. Now and then he feels the need to pinch his own skin, blindly groping for his forearm, just to see if it isn't slowly disintegrating. He relishes in the small twinge of pain, even if it does make it real, a living nightmare, and he's unable to wake.

His greasy hair hangs well past his prominent cheekbones, now surely sharp as razors, almost all the way to his pointy chin. Occasionally he catches a filthy strand with his fingers, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger simply to have something to do. Taking stock is his only way of passing time.

A new activity, a project is what he needs. He has tried to move his muscles, push his tired body up from the filthy ground, but he doesn't have the strength, so the idea is abandoned soon after.

Fortunately for Credence he has inherited the gift of imagination from his sordid parents, so he sits there in the darkness, eyes unseeing, and yet he's no longer alone. He often sees _him_ , Graves, the man that had betrayed him. Used him. The way Graves always stood there, a wicked glint in his eye; surrounded by his army of leather-clad cronies, wands blazing high above their heads. And then there's her, the woman. Tina, that redheaded man had called her the night in the subway. The night he had died.

He'd never known her name before that night, remembering her only as the woman who'd shown him kindness, warmth and security the likes he'd never experienced before. It all seems hollow now. She's betrayed him, just like the rest of them. Left out on the doorstep in the cold; left to fend for himself.

They'd tried to destroy him and failed. He's alive — wounded perhaps — but still in one piece. His mind is left unscathed, and his will never wavered. For a while he'd harboured hope; a small, feeble thing that didn't survive for long. He's crossed the ocean to get away from it all, only to walk straight back into the darkness.

This cell and its abysmal stench is all he can remember since stepping off the boat at Cherbourg. Food gets passed through a small slit to one side, but he's neither seen or heard from his captors. If they're trying to break his will, they'll be in for a long wait. Credence has been in confinement all his life; arms shackled to his body, what difference does this make?

The mechanical click of the lock and the screech of iron scraping over iron shakes him from his reverie and he shields his eyes against the sudden brightness assaulting him. There's the silhouette of a person – a man perhaps? Credence cannot be sure – standing out against the blinding light of the open doorway.

"It's your lucky day, lad. Boss wants to see ya," says the silhouette man, jostling his keys and wrapping fleshy fingers around Credence's bony forearm. They walk down a narrow, dimly-lit corridor, yet his eyes still burn from weeks spent in utter darkness. It's just as cold and lifeless as his cell; only the cleanliness sets it apart. Their walk couldn't have been far, but to Credence's unused muscles it feels like an eternity. On and on they walk, deep into the building's underbelly. There's a distant rumbling below, strong and steady as a heartbeat, and he's convinced now more than ever that the building is positively _alive_.

They pass through a doorway at the end of the corridor and the chamber behind is cleaner, brighter and colder than anything he has ever experienced before. The windowless room is void of any furniture except for a small table and two chairs in the centre, the same phosphorescent white as the four walls surrounding it.

A tall man he's never seen before occupies one of the chairs. His silvery white hair is long and neatly slicked back over his skull in a way that's strikingly familiar, yet his merciless, unsettling stare isn't. One eye is large, nearly black, and Credence shivers as it draws him in as if to suck him into the depth of the stranger's soul. Its small, grey counterpart is no less disconcerting, piercing him with a fierce and knowing stare that seems to see right through him. Credence thinks that if his own appearance so fittingly reflects the interior of his cell, this man would camouflage himself like a chameleon against the backdrop of these walls.

The stranger's face bears the ghost of a smile, the moustache covering his upper lip doing nothing to soften the jagged angles of his face. His razor-sharp gaze clings to him as Credence is frog-marched towards the table without putting up any resistance. Credence can tell the man is trying to look casual, almost nonchalant, but his eyes betray him. They are frozen steel, ice cold and terribly dangerous.

He motions Credence to sit while another man appears with a tray bearing two crystal glasses and a carafe of ruby liquid. The light reflects off the angled crystal rim of the glass, dappling the walls in myriads of glinting rainbow shards and he fights the urge to cover his eyes again. Credence dips his head, letting his hair fall into his face to partially shield his view, yet never takes his eyes off the mysterious stranger.

"Drink, boy. It won't harm you," the man says and raises his glass without breaking eye contact. His voice is smooth like velvet, kind with an underlying callousness that makes Credence's skin crawl.

He fingers the hard crystal before lifting the glass to his mouth, parting his lips to let the liquid wet his desperately parched throat, swallowing dutifully. The taste isn't at all as he's imagined, the richness of its colour feigning something sweet, not the spicy, almost savoury flavour now coating his tongue. It's not at all unpleasant. There's a familiar pressure in his head and he looks up sharply. He hasn't felt it in weeks, not since the subway incident, and shakes him to his foundations.

 _Who is this man?_

"You might not know me, Credence, but I know everything about you. I know what you are and what you represent. What they've been trying to take from you," the stranger says, answering his unspoken question, and Credence shivers with comprehension.

"Who are you?" Credence growls against his better judgement.

"I'm Gellert Grindelwald." The man smirks and Credence regards him through narrowed eyes as the pieces finally fall into place.

"You're the one they're after. In the papers," he says, sudden realisation colouring his words and Grindelwald's face splits into a sly, close-lipped grin that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Now, now. You mustn't believe everything they write in their polished little articles. Truth is always in the eye of the beholder, don't you think?" Grindelwald takes another sip of his drink and Credence knows better than to make any sudden movements, feeling much like predator and prey.

"What do you want from me?" Credence asks instead, not wanting to prolong this meeting. Surely there's a motive behind it all and he's sick of the incandescent white blinding his eyes, though whether it's the walls or the man in front of him he cannot say.

"Well, I see there's no point in small talk with you, my boy. I have, shall we say, _a proposition_ for you. And I'm sure you'll find it to your liking." The rest of his face doesn't move when he speaks and his eyes, unblinking, take on a near manic glint. Credence thinks this is the first time he's showing his true self.

"I'm not joining your circus of fanatic clowns," Credence utters grimly, face set.

Grindelwald seems to delight in the obvious slight and grins before leaning forward, like the cat that knows it's about to make its kill. His eyes glint with cunning delight when he delivers his last blow. "There're others like you. Scared, defenceless, hurt. I want to help them, Credence."

Credence perks up at this, imagining another helpless child in another desperate place, hurting just as much as he was and it does things to him. Blood boils under his skin and there's an insistent ringing in his ears, threatening to overtake his mind. He's too weak to give into it, instead he works to calm his thoughts.

"I've heard this once before," he says. "How do I know you're any different?"

"They need your help Credence; yours more than anyone else's. I can help you. Do you think a sin should go unpunished? Look what they've done to you — are you willing to let them get away with it?" The grin is gone from Grindelwald's face, instead there's the glow of triumph on his skin; the look of someone who knows they're about to get what they want. "That man was useless. Empty promises. He was one of them! Me, however — I'm the one they _fear_."

"I know how wizards like you look at people like us," Credence says, meeting his gaze. "Why do you want to help scum like us? What's in it for you?"

Grindelwald smirks, nodding approvingly. "I think we can help each other. All we want is to be free of the shackles we've been forced to wear for centuries. These chains are the reason people like you exist, my boy. They're the root of your suffering. Without them, you could all be free. No more pain."

Credence doesn't stop to think, following the longing of his heart and the blood rushing through his veins. There's no question about his intention when he lifts his head to brush the hair from his eyes, mind made up. "What do you need me to do?"

The smirk is back, larger than before as Grindelwald leans forward, extending a pale-fleshed palm. Credence blinks before lifting his own bony fingers to clasp the proffered hand. They shake over the gleaming white table in the white-walled chamber, and for the first time in weeks Credence feels like the world has started spinning again.

Whether it's moving in his direction or away from him, he's yet unable to say.

 **Two months earlier, late December 1926, MACUSA, New York**

The clock reads ten minutes to midnight, but there's still a sliver of light peeking from under the threshold of the President's office. He scrubs a tired hand over his face, briefly wondering whether he's going to be seeing his bed at all tonight. Director of Magical Security is a prestigious title, yet it comes with a heavy burdern and even greater expectations. His predecessor left a large pair of shoes to fill and nobody knows this better than he, Arnold Guzman.

He's been in charge for barely a week and he's close to breaking. Of course, his predecessor didn't have the world's most dangerous wizard stewing in the basement.

 _It's because the guy was running the damn show_ , he thinks bitterly before shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

His knock is confident yet politely muted, appropriate for the time of day, and he must strain his ears to hear the quiet "Enter!" before pulling open the door.

"Madame President," he greets her and clears his throat as she inclines her head in a graceful little bow. "I was wondering if you've been able to look through the folders I gave you. The ICW is pressing for an answer."

"I have," she says and reaches into her drawer. She produces a stack of brown folders and hands them across her desk. "I've made a few minute changes."

"Very good," he murmurs as he thumbs through the files. He comes across one particular name that makes him frown. "Tina Goldstein? Madame President, she's just been reinstated, and with all due respect, we do have far more talented aurors on hand."

Picquery sighs as if she expected his objection. "Arnold, I am sure you have read the report and seen the photograph. If it's true and the Barebone boy survived and made it to Europe, Grindelwald might well be trying to use him." He begins to protest and she sends him a pointed look. The words die on his tongue, mouth open and closing like a fish gasping for air. "If that's the case, you will need Goldstein; she's the only one he will reason with. And while I agree she might not be the most skilled, she has shown good instincts and the will to learn. There's passion and dedication. Goldstein's part of the team at my request, end of discussion."

He snaps his mouth shut, pressing his lips into a thin line but refrains from any further objections. Seraphina Picquery is a headstrong woman, used to getting what she wants, seldomly straying off course once she's picked a path. There's no use in arguing.

"Good, I'll get this underway," he says and fingers the papers in his hand, unable to stop the words before they slip. "If this backfires we'll lose some of our best guys."

"It's an uncertain time, Arnold. Europe is a fuse waiting to blow. This is our best chance to ensure continued peace across the continent, before it spills over and on to our own shores, so we've got to do our part," she says and her eyes gleam like black onyx in the low light of the candle on her desk.

"I understand," he says.

"I want regular reports on their progress. We've got to get this right," she murmurs and he thinks she looks more strained these days, the deep line on her forehead a constant companion. "Good night, Arnold," she says, dismissing him.

 _He's got us all on edge,_ he thinks and gives a brief nod as he backs towards the door. "Good night, Madame."

The files weigh heavy on his arm as he makes his way towards the lift. "Passion and dedication." He chuckles darkly, and the elf operating the lift nearly jumps out of his skin. "Let's see what you're made of, Goldstein."

"Sir?" the elf asks.

"What? Oh, major investigations department," he barks with more force than strictly necessary. The creature glowers at him and he imagines the elf muttering, _Damn wizards these days,_ under his breath, but Arnold doesn't care. He's got a big pair of shoes to fill, and something tells him this is just the tip of the iceberg.

 **Mid January 1927, MACUSA, New York**

The rhythmic clink of Queenie's heels on granite triumphs over the amorphous hum of MACUSA's inner workings. It's a familiar sound that precedes her through the halls and follows everywhere she goes, comforting her much like her mother's singing used to do. Sometimes it's all she can focus on to drown out the noise and calm her mind, to keep the headaches at bay. Especially now.

The winding staircase takes her down far below the lift's lowest stop, on and on like she's descending into MACUSA's foundations. That's where they keep him, a level below the canal rats that inhabit the sewers, locked away where no natural light can ever reach, and Queenie tries hard not to think of the time Tina nearly lost her life in this place. She's seen it in her thoughts, tasted her fear, and she shudders every time she remembers it.

Now the man who tried to extinguish her sister's light is slowly rotting away on the same cold, slimy granite floors. Some would say it's justice, barely enough for the offences he committed, yet the more time she spends with him the less she finds him anything but ordinary, if not a little pathetic.

It's her duty to bring him his meals. Simple Queenie Goldstein from the Wand Permits Office, simple Queenie Goldstein who's never spend much time with Director Graves, simple Queenie Goldstein who will never succumb to Grindelwald's wicked ways.

Simple Queenie Goldstein who feels entirely hollow inside.

On the outside she's still the same as she's always been, yet there's something missing she's never going to gain back. Sometimes, in her darkest hours alone at home, she wishes she could have stood in the rain alongside him and forget anything ever happened. Then she chides herself, knowing she would do it all again in a heartbeat, and makes a point to cherish every second they had together. The short time she'd been able to spend in his presence is priceless, and she holds it dear, guarding it close to her heart like the precious jewel it is.

It happens on one of her dimmer afternoons when she reaches the bottom of the stairs and finds the holding area surprisingly empty; devoid of the usual guards holding silent vigil. The cell door stands wide open, yet their prisoner is still in his chair. His eyes are the only thing that moves as she approaches him, and his stare makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. There's a low prickling sensation in the back of her mind, like a gentle tickle, a presence she's come to associate with him.

They never speak, protocol forbids it, yet she knows he's aware of her ability. It's how they communicate. He's never unkind, never forces himself on her and retreats if she shuts him out. This time, however, it's different. She sets the tray before him with shaking fingers and his hand shoots out to wrap around her wrist, holding her in place. He leans towards her without ever breaking eye contact.

"It's not too late for you and your non-magical friend, you know," is the only thing he says, lips pulling into a sympathetic half-smile as he sits back and releases her skin to pick up his fork.

Queenie stares, rocked to her foundations and waits for him to elaborate, but he turns away, and she knows their conversation is over. She climbs the stairs back to reality, mind deeply troubled, and it follows her around for the rest of the day, muting even the comforting click-clack of her heels. When she arrives home that night she's met with a familiar deafening emptiness; the apartment without Tina's comforting presence and she's alone once again with only her burdens and her grief for company.

Tina is absent most days, busy with retraining on top of her usual workload and rotating night shifts, and even when she's home the only thing they seem to do is argue; about Jacob, about the Statue of Secrecy, about the injustice of the burden they're living under. She knows Tina isn't yet entirely whole, still fragile in her confidence. Newt's cryptic and irregular correspondence weighs heavy on her sister's mind, yet Queenie can't help the sting of jealousy taking a hold of her heart when she thinks at least there's a correspondence to speak of.

She feels utterly alone in a crowd of people.

It's under these circumstances that Grindelwald finds her, advancing slowly, and it takes all the willpower she possesses not to scream aloud the first time it happens. She's sitting on her desk when she feels his familiar intrusion, a gentle probing at the back of her mind, and her fingers grip the edge of her desk until her knuckles turn white.

 _Don't be alarmed,_ he says. _I mean you no harm. I'd like to help you._

Queenie closes her eyes, shivering. _Why do you want to help me?_

 _Because, I think you could use a friend._

It unnerves her at first, the strength of his abilities and how far he can reach, yet it should not have come as a surprise. With time it becomes a comfort, the knowledge that she isn't entirely alone after all.

It gradually morphs into a routine as the days go by. Their exchanges become longer as sentences grow into paragraphs and soon she spends most of her lunch breaks glued to her desk, eyes closed and listening. She learns him just as much as he's learning her, and she finds her fear of him slowly fading, yet she isn't fooled. There's quiet strength there, and intelligence, and a cunning, calculating side of him he's unable to hide in its entirety. What surprises her most is the humanity and the reason in his eyes, qualities she was sure he couldn't possibly possess.

They talk about the past and the future, his visions and her desires, and she finds they don't fall so far apart. She doesn't have to hide from him, doesn't have to pretend, and it soothes an aching wound, fills a gaping void she's otherwise forced to ignore.

He teaches her to use her gift, rather than to fight it, and for the first time in her life she feels useful and appreciated, like there's something beyond the boundaries she's drawn for herself. Her sister's continued absences no longer weigh her down as much and when he extends a helping hand she only hesitates for the briefest moment before reaching for it.

 _Close your eyes. Now, concentrate on the image you want to project. Shield it from me then consciously plant it into my mind,_ he instructs and she gasps, eyebrows nearly touching her hairline.

 _Both at once?_ She opens her eyes, unable to hide the uncertainty of her thoughts.

 _Yes. You have the strength, I've seen it. Close your mind!_ She feels his familiar presence gently filter through her thoughts. _Ah, yes. Emotions. There's tremendous hurt in you. A sense of loss. You feel abandoned. It holds you back and weakens your defences._

Queenie's heart lurches, knowing his words to be true. _People are easiest to read when they're hurting._ His probing presence delves deeper into her mind, yet it's almost like the gentle caress of a compassionate friend as he looks into her soul.

 _There's a way to reverse the memory loss, and for you and your muggle friend to live together in peace,_ he says after a time.

 _Not here there ain't,_ she counters miserably, wrestling with the familiar longing deep in her chest.

 _Not yet, perhaps, but it can be done._ His presence feels strong and sure, comforting and supporting all at once until she truly believes his words. _I can help._

 _There's no way to get out of MACUSA unnoticed_ , she muses, thinking of the nightly patrols stationed around the Woolworth Building. ' _Specially for you._

He laughs at that, the cold and calculating cackle she doesn't like, the one that makes her skin crawl and has her fidget in her seat. _Think about it; you've done it before, and I have skilled and loyal friends in many places, Miss Goldstein. How do you think I managed to get here, right under MACUSA's noses? Americans — your self-importance makes you imprudent — and blind._

Her face hardens at the slight when she finds there might be some truth to his words the longer she ponders them. President Picquery appears more focused on her own image than international security these days, fighting for jurisdiction over Grindelwald's interrogation not out of national interest, but as a demonstration of political prowess; almost as if she's trying her hardest to ignore and deny the facts that stare her right in the face.

Queenie ponders it for a time, battling her inner demons and conflicting emotions, trying to stifle the guilt that threatens to bury her until she makes a decision. It's her turn to bring him his food that day and he looks at her expectantly as she turns the corner. The guards are nowhere in sight.

His smile broadens when he senses the change in her and a plan slowly starts to solidify in her mind. _Yes! Take the hurt and all the pain they've caused you. Don't let it weigh you down — use it!_

"That might just work," she breathes aloud and he smiles wider still.

Tina is exhausted, _bone tired_ no longer sufficient to describe the all-encompassing fatigue weighing down her body. She's dragging her feet up the stairs at the tail end of an entire month of intelligence operation training. Days are filled dusk to dawn with theoretical lectures, sandwiched by brutal practical training units at either end, and she's looking forward to collapse on her own bed. It's late and Mrs Esposito has already left her watch for the night, and Tina is more than grateful to skip the usual Spanish Inquisition halfway up the stairs. It's hard enough to keep herself upright as it is.

The apartment is dark when she shuts the door behind herself and tiptoes through the living room, careful to skip the two loose floorboards that screech like a banshee, shedding her heavy outer layers as she goes. She's down to her knickers and camisole when the bedroom door slides open.

"Teenie? You're back!" Queenie's voice is missing the sleepy scratchiness Tina expected, proof she's been waiting up, and she frowns at her watch.

"Queenie, it's past midnight," she admonishes gently and Queenie scoffs.

"I could say the same. Only I ain't white as a sheet," Queenie shoots back before softening her gaze. "You look exhausted, Tina. I'm worried about you."

 _Don't be,_ Tina wants to say, _you're the one I should be worried about_ , but she knows Queenie is only telling the truth. "It's alright," Tina says instead. "I'll be okay."

The standard answer. Queenie's eyes fall to the crusty scratch along her sister's cheekbone and a healing, yellow bruise along her wrist where Tina's neglected to mend her tattered sleeve. "Teenie, what happened?" Queenie asks and reaches for her, but Tina snatches her arm away.

"Nothing," she murmurs, closing off and Queenie wants to scream at the deafening silence that greets her.

"Please don't shut me out," Queenie whispers, tears burning at the corner of her eye, and Tina's face twists into an unhappy grimace.

"You know I can't tell you," she says.

Queenie knows there's no point in arguing, so she Summons the letter she found sitting on their kitchen table when she arrived home that afternoon, stoically swallowing her hurt. "Something came for you today, I thought you'd be happy to know."

Tina's face brightens at familiar sight of her name and address scrawled across the front, haphazardly penned in bright silver ink, the hurried letters so different from his usual loopy script. She traces it thoughtfully, wondering what might have caused his obvious agitation before slipping a finger under the flap to break the seal. The paper is heavy and expensive-looking, a cream coloured parchment with his gold-lettered monogram at the head.

She still remembers the first missive he sent, a heartfelt telegram from aboard his ship before he even reached the English shores. They'd managed an irregular string of letters ever since, always polite and always addressed to the pair of them, but this one is different. It's addressed solely to herself.

"So? Any news?" Queenie asks after a few moments of silence and Tina sends her a half-hearted glare, too happy to put any real feeling behind it. "Is he saying when he'll be in New York next?"

It's a question she asks every time they receive a letter from across the Atlantic, yet there's finally an answer to it amidst all the tales of fantastic creatures and mundane everyday happenings, and Tina's heart sinks as her eyes scan the words. "He's not," she says, voice quiet with disappointment. "They denied his travel permit."

"Oh, Tina," Queenie says with sympathy, desperately wishing to read the colour of her sister's thoughts, now more than ever. "Who did? MACUSA?"

"The British Ministry. I never expected this to be easy, not after everything that's happened in December, but I didn't think they'd go that far." Tina folds up the letter and tugs it back into its envelope, simultaneously locking away her feelings before squeezing past Queenie to disappear in the bedroom. Queenie looks after her, heart heavy at her sister's distress and the hollow ache in her chest.

Tina doesn't speak as she readies herself for bed and slips under the covers, turning to face the wall and away from her sister. Queenie sighs, her own heartache now supplemented by her sister's pain. Despite it all she pushes on and reaches out a hand across the narrow space between their beds, delighting in the small spark of triumph when Tina leans into the comfort of her touch.

"Tina?" Queenie asks into the stillness of the bedroom and receives a noncommittal grunt in return. She licks her lips, hesitating briefly before voicing the question she's been practising in her head for days. "Is there any news on what they're planning to do with Grindelwald?"

This catches Tina's attention and she rolls to face her sister, propping herself up on her elbow to better meet her eyes. Her voice is laced with mild surprise and a healthy amount of suspicion when she answers. "Why do you want to know?"

"Nothin', just curious," Queenie murmurs and shudders before she adds for good measure: "He gives me the creeps, is all."

Tina nods in understanding. "They're going to move him next week. That's why they send us home. A delegation from Switzerland is coming to bring him back to Europe, so you won't have to put up with him for much longer," she says and reaches for her sister's hand to give it a gentle squeeze.

Queenie's heart gives a painful lurch, both at the sympathy in her sister's eyes and the knowledge of what she's about to do, the hurt she's going to inflict on the only family member she's got left in this world.

The Swiss delegation arrives on a cloudless morning in early February. The sidewalks still glisten with the remainders of last week's icy flurry, the city firmly within winter's unrelenting grip. Heinrich Eberstadt is among the group, his dark green uniform as impeccable as his poise when he stands, awaiting his address as the sun reflects off the silver medal on his front.

The white strands in his beard and hair seem to have increased since his last visit as has the fine network of worry lines marring his forehead. His jaw is set tight and he looks just as thrilled to be here as his American counterparts when they face the crowds at the foot of MACUSA's marble staircase, stiffly posing for the mandatory photograph.

The atrium is crowded, bursting at the seams with office workers and journalists alike, and the camera shutters go off at a near constant rate, the remnants of burned flash powder lingering in the air, shrouding everything in a fine, silvery mist.

Tina stands in the shadows close by the doors, far from the group of aurors lingering close to the President, not yet allowed back into the Inner Circle. She doesn't mind, welcoming the opportunity to watch from the sidelines, observing the delegates and onlookers in turn. They kept her well away from Grindelwald's quarters and what little questioning they subjected him to, deemed unfit to witness his interrogation given their proximity and his obvious interest in her during his time at MACUSA.

While Mr Graves had seen and nourished her potential, Grindelwald had sensed her connection to Credence and had used it in his favour. He'd formed and manipulated her without her knowledge. It still pains her, her blindness and apparent inability to see through his disguise while Credence's loss still weighs heavily on her mind.

The hall quiets when Seraphina Picquery steps forward, equally dressed for the occasion, her deep red silk gown flowing off her shoulders to pool around her feet as tendrils of her light hair frame her face, piled high atop her head like the symbol of power it is. She lifts her chin and her regal gaze sweeps the room before she addresses the crowd: "Today, Gellert Grindelwald is to be dispatched back into the waiting hands of his motherland. He will no longer be our responsibility —"

Tina senses movement from the corner of her eye and her gaze falls onto a tall woman standing in the middle of the crowd. She's elegantly dressed, her silky black robe flowing around her ankles like water, dark hair tied in a neat knot at the nape of her neck where it pokes out from beneath an unusually pointy hat. The ensemble makes her stand out from the crowd and Tina inches closer as a familiar suspicious tingle takes the back of her neck, making her hair stand on end.

The woman turns and her intelligent, brilliant blue eyes find Tina's with unerring accuracy, fixing her with a calculating stare as if in challenge, making her blood run cold. Her scarlet mouth pulls into a smile — or is it a sneer? — before she slips away and disappears in the crowd.

" — We have kept him under lock and key as promised, but it's time for him to face the charges brought against him. Justice will be done! —"

Tina tries to follow, using her elbow for leverage as she pummels her way through the crowd. She loses sight of the woman when another black robed figure catches her eye. And then another. Tina's heart begins to pound in her chest as she turns to fight her way through to her fellow aurors.

"We've got to clear this space," she gasps, holding her stinging side once she's found two of her colleagues loitering behind a column. "Now!"

"Are you crazy, Goldstein? The president is in the middle of her address! On what grounds?" one of them answers sharply, eyebrows raised in clear disbelief.

" _Get everyone out of here_ ," she hisses vehemently as naked fear seeps into her voice.

"— Let it be a lesson all those who seek to do us harm. We are not a nation to be trifled with, and this shall serve as an example. Our political ties remain unperturbed and international cooperation is stronger than ever. That I — " There's a small commotion at the centre of the room and the president's voice falters in the middle of her speech.

A scuffle. A blood-curdling scream. A flash of light before an earth shattering blast sweeps the room, the magnitude of its shockwave catching Tina by surprise as the ground is swept from under her feet and she's thrown violently against the wall. The last thing she sees is her fellow aurors crowding around the President before it all goes black.


End file.
